by Karen Ritter

Our eyes locked in the elevator. I lived on the third floor with my husband and baby. Don lived above us with his young, beautiful wife, Megan. Or had, anyway. Even though she had won awards in advertising and saved the Heinz account and was now a famous actress who spoke fluent French and cooked coq au vin and greeted Don at the door every night holding a martini and wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, it wasn’t enough for Don. She hadn’t read Proust.

Don hadn’t either but he’d been briefed on the concept. So when he spotted me carrying Remembrance of Things Past, he followed me out of the building.